Author Archives: Lisa Tan

Caution: What you are about to read could forever change your hygiene standards, destroy your loyalty to toilet paper, and spark an urgent craving for a plumbing upgrade.

Most Americans I know, are downright obsessed with sanitization. We wash our fruit like it’s radioactive, scrub our hands like we’re prepping for surgery, and heaven forbid you’re caught without a bottle of hand sanitizer tucked into your purse. Public restrooms? Hazmat zones. Handrails and doorknobs? Biohazards. Chlorox wipes? Absolute besties.

So, here’s the big question: why is wiping our booty with dry toilet paper still socially acceptable?

Years ago, I came home to find the toilet seat had been replaced. But this wasn’t just any new seat – it came with a 12-inch command center loaded with more buttons than our TV remote. Naturally, I turned to my husband to ask what this high-tech wonder was. He chuckled and said, “It’s a bidet,” with a look so proud you’d thought he engineered it himself.

I had a pretty good idea what a bidet was, but I was only half right. What followed was an eye-opening education, complete with enthusiastic encouragement to personally take the plunge.

Nope, I just couldn’t get myself to try it. That bidet sat untouched by me for months, partly because I don’t like being told what to do, and partly because, well…it scared me. But after hearing my husband emerge from the bathroom day after day, grinning like he’d just won the lottery, and proudly declaring, “I have the cleanest ass in Mason City,” did I decide it was time to give it a try.

The time had come. I had to put my fears aside and embrace the unknown. Unfortunately, my first bidet encounter proved one thing: I hadn’t exactly aced orientation. Somewhere between all the buttons and blinking lights, I completely missed the part about multiple water streams. As luck would have it, I hit the wrong one and suddenly, a jet of ice-cold water shot straight toward the front of my anatomy with such force, it felt less like a gentle rinse and more like someone launched a frozen catheter directly into my urethra. Let me tell you: there was absolutely nothing pleasant about that.

When I told Tan I’d finally tried it, he was more excited than a kid in a candy store. Until I told him my experience wasn’t exactly euphoric. Cue the laughter. Cue the second training session.

This time I had my listening ears on. I learned about temperature control, directional spray, and the magic button. Turns out, there’s an actual button that sweeps the water stream back and forth, covering both ends in one graceful rinse. Now that’s what I call innovation.

We’re now proud owners of multiple bidets: two in the house, one at the cabin, and one in the mancave. I swear some of our friends hold out on their BM’s until they’re at our place, just to experience the rinse.

I used to think bidets were reserved for the wealthy. Turns out, that’s a total myth. In fact, many poorer countries consider bidets a standard household fixture. They’ve been around for centuries. On a trip to Malaysia, I noticed a hose with a sprayer attachment hanging from the toilet. I found myself glancing around the bathroom, trying to figure out what needed watering. Turns out, they were one step ahead of us in the hygiene game.

Fun fact: “Bidet” is French for “pony” because you straddle it like you’re riding one. Originally it was used for feminine hygiene and even as contraception (though proven ineffective). Bidets later became symbols of cleanliness and comfort.

When guests use our bathroom, we give them a second or two, knowing they will reappear asking if it flushes like a normal toilet. The buttons confuse them. Yes, it flushes like a normal toilet, but why settle for standard when you’ve got the magic trick waiting? Skipping the bidet would be like leaving a concert before the encore – it’s where the real show begins

I’ve got to share an eye-opening experience I had with the upstairs bidet. One day I thought it wasn’t working, so I stood up mid-sit to inspect the little nozzle between my legs (head out of the gutter – the bidet nozzle). What I didn’t realize was that the hose kinks under your weight – you have to shift slightly to release the pressure. But I hadn’t learned that yet. So, there I was, leaning in, investigating, when whoosh – wrong move. I caught a face full of cold water, straight from the nozzle. Honestly, I just sat there laughing, stunned, with water dripping from my glasses. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect…or less perfect, depending on one’s intentions.

The bidet is most definitely a conversation piece. Several of our friends have confided that they’re now proud owners of one and say now that they’ve used one, they’d never go back to dry toilet paper.

So, grab your favorite cocktail and raise your glass high – this may not be Shakespearean worthy – just my version of splashy bathroom poetry:

To buttons we press with

Fingers unsure,

To streams that clean and leave

Us pure.

To seats that warm and hoses

That dance,

To guests who take a

Cautious stance.

So, raise your glass with

Cheeky delight,

May your rinse be gentle, your aim be

Just right.

And if you’re at the Tan house, please do

Take note –

That red towel on the little chair?

Not for your face or your throat.

BOTTOMS UP! CHEERS!

I was watching a reel about a 5-year-old boy, fighting back tears while his father showered him with words of affirmation. His father was expressing to his son just how much the little boy was loved and cherished. The little boy’s face was a blend of emotions – shifting between a proud smile to fighting back tears. His parents shared that their son was clearly an empath, even at his young age, deeply sensitive and attuned to the emotions around him. The story concluded with a poignant message from the journalist, emphasizing how essential it is to hear the words “I love you” from a loved one, regardless of age or life stage.

The story took me back to my own childhood and the realization that I never once heard those three words. Not from my father anyway. Now, before you get all crazy on me, wipe that look of pity off your face, because I say that without any resentment or bitterness whatsoever; it was simply the way he was. My dad just couldn’t bring himself to say those words – not to me, not to my brothers, and, as I later discovered, not even to Mom. It was there in his heart, but he just couldn’t put it into syllables.

To be honest, there wasn’t a lot of interaction between my father and his kids. So, when we did get it, it was memorable. Did we feel unloved? Absolutely not. Maybe Mom filled in the gaps, or maybe we just understood that Dad was simply…being Dad. In his defense, he married at 40 and came from parents who treated affection like a rare treasure – something to keep hidden rather than put on display.

He was considered an older parent by the time kids came along. I remember Mom saying that Dad often joked, “Now I get why they say to have your kids when you’re young.” When Dad came home from work, he didn’t bolt outside to toss a baseball with his sons. He was tired. He wanted to relax, enjoy his one Pabst Blue Ribbon, have dinner, and settle into his favorite chair.

Later in the evening, we’d hear the comforting sound of the popcorn popper on the stove, always accompanied by a tall glass of lemonade.  That nightly ritual was an unspoken “I love you” from Mom to Dad.

It was most likely during a kitchen conversation with Mom regarding Dad’s inability to say those 3 cherished words, that I made a silent vow to myself. On my wedding day, I would find the courage to tell Dad I loved him. Maybe I hoped to hear those words echoed back, or maybe I just didn’t want to carry the regret of him leaving this earth without ever hearing them from me.

I was nineteen. Practically a toddler wearing mascara. My wedding day bloomed into one of the happiest days of my life…until it didn’t. Standing at the church doors, arm in arm with Dad, I felt ready. I was in glowing bride mode, until I looked up and saw all our family and friends gathered for our big event. In an instant, I became an emotional mess. 

This was my moment. I turned to Dad, ready to say the “I love you” I vowed I would say on my wedding day. But there he was – with a proud smile that had the emotional weight of an “I love you,” without him actually saying it. Before I could open my mouth, Dad leaned in and whispered, “You sure look perty.” That compliment broke me. My eyes welled up. My nose started to run, and there I was, clutching my father’s arm with one hand and gripping my bouquet with the other. I felt completely helpless, sniffing away, pretending I had it all together. Even if I had a tissue at my disposal, having a veil covering my face (a sure sign of the times), would have made nose blowing an impossible task.

It was now or never – the opportunity I had waited years for. The vow I made to myself echoing in my head. But instead of telling my father “I love you,” I said what any mature, loving daughter would say after hearing her father say he thought she looked “perty” – two vile, little words came spilling out of my mouth… SHUT UP! 

Truly, I blew my oath that day, not to my husband, but to myself. The words I had promised to say, never left my lips. Dad had derailed me with his quiet, heartfelt compliment. And I reciprocated with all the poise of a hormonal raccoon.

I remember visiting Mom and Dad at my old family home where the popcorn never missed a night. I’d sit at the organ and start playing Fascination, Dad’s favorite tune. It became our quiet little game: I’d play and wait to see how long it took him to notice. It never took long. From the other room I’d hear his signature cue: “Ah, there it is.” Occasionally, he’d get up from his chair, walk into the living room, and stand beside me while I played. No words exchanged, just shared breath and melody. That was our version of “I love you,” woven into the notes.

During my school years, I played both basketball and softball and my dad was always present at my games. Even in HS, seeing mom and dad’s face in the crowd was comforting and an inspiration to play my best.

Saturday evenings, Dad and I enjoyed watching the horror flicks after the 10pm news. We’d have popcorn, as dad never went a night without it. Dad always had claims on the rocker, while I laid on the hide-a-bed. Yep – the same one my brothers rolled me up in.

As I write this, something nudged me to glance at the calendar. July 8^th. I kid you not. It’s my dad’s birthday. Coincidence? Not a chance. He would’ve been 106 today. It’s hard to believe he’s been gone for 35 years now. I have classmates who still have at least one parent alive, and sometimes I do feel a flicker of envy – like I’ve been robbed of years that could’ve been.

My brothers and I have been orphans for 25 years now, but here’s the strange gift wrapped in our grief: we never had to make the heartbreaking decision to place a parent in a nursing home or witness the fog of dementia steal their recognition of us. We didn’t have to watch their bodies suffer slowly. And for that, I am deeply grateful.

Dad and I never exchanged the words “I love you.” And oddly enough, I have no regrets. His love didn’t need to be spelled out. It lived in presence, popcorn, and late-night monster movies. It showed up at my basketball games and softball fields, and in the friendly chaos of Twixt tournaments with my brothers.

I learned to love my coffee with creamer and sugar most likely because I’d take a sip from his cup every morning. When Father’s Day rolled around, we’d laugh because before we asked what he could use, we knew the answer. A new belt. Had to be brown. And maybe some new white T-shirts. V-neck, not crew.

When my time on this earth comes to a close and I take that quiet step into the next chapter, I know Dad will be there, one of the first to greet me. He’ll be waiting with that same steady warmth, maybe a pipe tucked in the corner of his mouth. No baby this time. When I run to embrace him, he’ll call me his “Lisa Bisa,” and we’ll share an Eskimo kiss.

And if there’s a welcome pizza party in the works? Let’s just pray they don’t send dad out to fetch it. Because he’ll come flying in with that box wedged under his arm, vertically of course, toppings cascading like melted confetti. Right beside him, there’ll be Mom, arms folded, rolling her eyes as she lets out that timeless sigh: “Oh, Dick!”

Let’s end with a toast. Grab your favorite cocktail. Tonight, I’ll be sipping a Seagram’s 7, one of dad’s favorites. Raise your glass high: Here’s to love felt, even when it’s not spoken. And here’s hoping that on the other side, he’s been instructed on the proper way to transport a pizza box.

Happy birthday, Dad. Tonight, I toast to all the quiet ways you made loud memories for me. I LOVE YOU! Cheers.”

Living in Iowa means keeping an eye on the sky, especially during tornado season. Each year, when the sirens wail and I’m ushered toward the basement, the safest spot should a twister pass through, I go through the same internal debate. The experts insist my chances of survival are best in the lower level of a house, but the thought of being trapped under layers of rubble, unable to move for hours or even days, feels worse than the alternative. A tornado whisking me away like an arrow shot into the sky? Well, I’ve always wanted to fly.

And then there’s my claustrophobia – defined as a deep-seated, irrational fear of confined spaces. Irrational to whom exactly? Because when I see rescue teams pulling someone alive from earthquake debris days later, I find myself gasping for air on their behalf. My personal version of hell involves barely breathing, unable to shift an inch, entombed in concrete and dust.

Even watching movies where someone is buried alive, stuck in a tiny space or deep underwater, sends me into deep, exaggerated breaths. My ever-hopeful husband wishes I’d join him in scuba diving. Sweet, naive man. The thought of being completely submerged in water, relying solely on a mouthpiece to breathe? No, thanks. I’ll admire the underwater world through GoPro footage from the safety of dry land.

Where did this claustrophobia begin? Let’s blame it on my brothers.

I vividly recall their creativity, which often involved me as the centerpiece of disaster: Once, they convinced me, against all logic, to lie sideways on a pullout mattress. Then they folded me up inside, shoved it back into the sofa, replaced the cushions, and sat on top, giggling as I lay crushed and immobilized, barely able to draw in a breath.

I heard one of them ask, “Heh, Mom, where’s Lisa?” – followed by my mother’s distant warning: “She better not be in that sofa!” Well, duh! Of course I was in that sofa! I must have been around five or six years old at the time. They were bored. I was convenient.

My brothers often turned me into their human guinea pig for any wild experiment they had concocted. Back in my childhood days, roller skates were adjustable to expand with your growing feet. They decided to dismantle the skates into 4 separate wheels, nail them to the corners of a plywood board, place a chair on top, set me on the chair – hands behind my back. What could possibly go wrong? Fortunately, they didn’t come up with the idea of blindfolding me too, although that may have proven better for me in the long run.

Our basement floor was bare cement, perfect for rolling an amateurish, contraption that screamed both creativity and potential disaster. But instead of gliding smoothly across the floor when they gave it a push, the wobbly chair started to go, taking me down with it.  I’ll never forget the terror of falling, unable to break my fall with my hands that were tied, and seeing the cement come rushing towards my head. 

The next thing I remember is waking up, running to the bathroom and throwing up.  Obvious to me now, I’m pretty sure I had a concussion.  My parents had clearly heard the commotion by this time and when I came out of the bathroom, they were standing at the bottom of the staircase.  I remember standing at the top, looking down at them, my dad with his arms outstretched.  I ran down those stairs and hugged him around his waist. Odd, considering that Mom is usually the go-to for trauma comfort.

Looking back, my brothers made sure my childhood was anything but dull. Although most of my basement memories involved terror, Sammy, our beloved cat giving birth in the laundry room was a softer moment, as was discovering a hidden stash of porn magazines in the crawlspace. That was a little less tender, more educational. Thanks again, bros.

I remember going in that crawlspace, which had sand as its base thus serving as the perfect litter box for Sammy. And dummy me for telling Mom, because she wasn’t about to crawl through the narrow opening to scoop out the poop.

That same laundry room where the kittens were born also housed an upright freezer that my brothers discovered held Santa’s Christmas presents. Another myth ruined by my ever-curious siblings.

And let’s not forget the night my dad, deep into a poker game with his friends, bellowed for me to “find the rabbit that just scurried across the floor.” Turns out, the baby rabbits I had rescued and bottle-fed had gone missing. Not anymore! I’m convinced the cage door was left open on purpose.

Despite the basement being the backdrop for many childhood traumas, there were a few silver linings. Saturday nights after the 10pm news, Dad and I watched classic horror films – Frankenstein, Dracula and the Mummy. I had the couch, Dad had his rocker, and naturally, we had popcorn. Sitting on top of the console TV was a fish aquarium, home to some Fancy Guppies. I found the soft lighting in the aquarium coupled with the low hum of the air filter soothing. And, I loved discovering new babies, until I learned that guppy parenting is less “nurturing” and more of an “all-you-can-eat buffet.” Traumatized again!

Grab your favorite cocktail and raise your glass in a toast: “To the basements that shelter us, the tornadoes that test us, and the brothers who guarantee our lifelong commitment to therapy. May we never again be rolled up, tossed, or tricked into a confined space without an escape plan. And, if a tornado ever whisks us away, may we land somewhere warm, scenic, and with a fully stocked bar. May all of your storms be light. Cheers!”

We’ve all done it – walked into a room with grand purpose, only to realize we’ve entirely forgotten why we went in there. It’s that awkward moment when you stand frozen, staring into the abyss, hoping your brain will miraculously reboot. And if you’re not fortunate enough to be alone, you do your best to play it cool. A few evenings ago, while lying in bed with my husband, I found myself in one of those classic moments and let me tell you, it was a memorable one.

Hubby was reading his iPad, and I was scrolling through my phone, our standard nighttime routine. Out of the blue, I told him something that had happened earlier that day, something I needed to share with him that I thought was of importance. Or so I thought. There was utter silence. I waited. He said, “I’m sorry, hon. I heard what you said, but I was so close to finishing the article.”

In that moment, I spiraled into full-on panic mode. Not because he was rude for not answering me right away – no, that I could handle and was also a common occurrence. One I was very used to. The real crisis was that, for the life of me, I couldn’t recall what I’d just shared with him – literally ten seconds earlier. It was as if my thought train had chugged out of the station, hit full speed, and promptly derailed somewhere in the wilderness, never to be seen again.

“OMG, what was it I just said to you?” my voice sounding alarmed.

He smirked and said, “Wow, you’re losing it, hon.”

I was in no mood for joking around. My voice grew more concerned and louder. “Seriously, this is scary! I have no recollection of what I just said to you. Quit playing games when you can see I’m obviously upset.”

He shrugged again and said, “Guess you’ll just have to keep thinking.”

The fear of not remembering, coupled with the frustration I was now feeling at him for blowing me off, forced a few nasty expletives, “Damn it, why are you acting like this? This isn’t funny.” However, it was about to be.

That’s when he started laughing hysterically. I stared at him incredulously. “How can you be so cruel when I’m clearly struggling?” I asked.

Though his laughter, he somehow managed to get out the words: “Because I can’t remember either!”

And just like that, we both dissolved into laughter – though I’m not sure if it was the kind of laughter that brings relief or the kind that signals we’re officially spiraling into mutual memory loss territory. While his inability to remember was technically reassuring, it did nothing to ease the gnawing realization that my brain synapses might be clocking out early these days.

Whenever these moments strike, and too often around my kids, naturally it’s their job to tease me about finding me a home. I attempt to reassure them (and myself) that it has nothing to do with age. It’s just that my mind is overflowing with so many brilliant ideas, that whenever I try sharing them, my brain starts buffering like a vintage computer stuck on dial-up.

In my quest to find a logical explanation for my brain farts, I consulted with Dr. Google, my go-to-physician. I discovered there’s a real scientific term for the phenomenon and it has nothing to do with age. It’s called the “Doorway Effect.” According to Dr. Radvansky, a professor at Notre Dame, passing through a doorway essentially sends a signal to your brain instructing it to file away the memory episode of activity you were working on in room A (the room you just left) in order to start a new memory episode for room B (the room you just walked into). Dr. Radvansky continues, “Entering or exiting through a doorway serves as an “event boundary” in the mind, which separates episodes of activity and files them away. Recalling the decision or activity that was made in a different room is difficult because it has been compartmentalized. 

Are some of you shaking your head? Because I am! I’m picturing myself when I use to work at the OB/GYN office, and if every time I walked into a new patient room, I forgot what I came in the room for, because after all, I just passed through brain-draining technology, it would have been an absolute train wreck. With memory-sucking doorways, an OB/GYN office could become a comedy sketch show. Picture this: in a desperate attempt to outwit the doorways, the staff develops quirky rituals to hold onto their thoughts.  Doctors walk backwards into rooms, chanting their tasks like a mantra: “paaaap tesssst….Paaaap tesssst…” And it’s not just OB/GYN offices obviously. I’m pretty sure other buildings have doorways too.  Like ALL OF THEM!

I can envision it now – my kids flipping through brochures for assisted living facilities, calling out, “Mom, this one has bingo on Thursdays! And oh, this one has a koi pond and memory games! You’ll love it there!” Meanwhile, I’ll play their little game by deliberately calling my boys by each other’s names. Who am I kidding? That last one’s already my specialty.

Grab your favorite cocktail and raise your hand high in a toast: “To the doorways and Dr. Radvansky, for giving us something truly scientific to blame our memory lapses on – that it’s not our age, but the architecture to blame! May the good doctor never forget to reverse his order, as a minor directional mistake and your flu shot might come with stirrups and a pap smear chaser. While we may forget why we walked into a room, may we never forget to refill our glass while we’re there. Cheers!”

If you’ve read my first blog, I may have said something about my posts being like a conversation among friends after a margarita or two. Well, after all, I am going on my seventh blog, so let’s have one on the rocks and get straight to it.

There are some FB posts that just leave me pondering human behavior. If you can relate to any of these, drop me a line – misery loves company. If you think I’m totally insensitive, we can discuss that too. Preferably with chips and queso.

There’s just something about the “Happy heavenly birthday” posts on FB, that have me shaking my head. First of all, you already said “heavenly birthday,” so their current celestial status is well established. Then to remove any shred of doubt, you tack on: “To my mother in heaven.” Got it. Noted. She’s not checking notifications up there.

Now, before you all pounce on me, I totally understand celebrating milestones online. I get the posts saying, “Happy birthday to my 1-year-old,” who obviously isn’t scrolling through FB like a tiny influencer – yet. It’s just a sweet way of sharing joy with friends and family. But publicly wishing someone who’s no longer checking notifications from this realm, a birthday shout out on social media? That one baffles me.

Let’s just admit it, 99.99% of the reason it’s posted is because deep down, people have a need to hear the responses. “I’m so sorry. She was one of a kind. I miss her too. Her meatloaf was second to none. The comments roll in, validating grief, offering comfort, and letting the author soak up a little extra emotional support. Sometimes people need that.

Do I remember my mother on her birthday or the anniversary of her death? You bet I do. Do I talk to her? Of course. But do I need a digital audience for it? Nope. Some things are sacred without the need for likes, comments, or heartfelt emoji reactions. I only hope those who post “Happy heavenly birthday” also whisper it when no one’s scrolling.

That said, if posting a birthday message to your loved one brings you comfort, I fully respect that. This is just one of those little quirks that gets under my skin for no real reason other than, well, it’s just me. My problem. My pet peeve.

While there are several more FB quirks I could lovingly dissect, I’ll save those gems for another day. For now, I’ll end with this one. It really doesn’t annoy me as much as it just makes me tilt my head and wonder if we’re all being honest with ourselves. Maybe a part of me even wants to call people out on it. Shame on me for thinking that.

Let’s talk about one of those classic phrases that we all use without thinking. We see it every day while scrolling social media: “My thoughts and prayers are with you.” It does have a lovely sentiment to it. It’s heartfelt, kind, and most of the time, it’s what pops out because we don’t know what else to say when we’ve read sad news.

This is what I’m always left wondering. Did the person commenting really pause for a second and send up a prayer? Or was it just an autopilot response – typed and sent, and then promptly forgotten? I mean, I get it, life moves fast and sometimes words are all we have. But for me, this phrase feels too easy, too routine, too cliché.

If I tell someone “I’m offering up a prayer for you,” (and I intentionally phrase it differently than the cliché version), you can bet that in that moment, I stopped what I was doing, closed my eyes, and sent up an actual request for peace, comfort or strength for that person. Maybe lingered a little longer because well, if I’m saying it, I want to mean it. And if I don’t do it now, I’ll forget.

I’m not here to police anyone’s well-meaning condolences. If “thoughts and prayers” brings comfort, then by all means, use it! But, if reading this makes even one person stop for an extra second before saying the phrase, if it leads them to actually offer up a prayer instead of just typing words, then mission accomplished. Keep saying it…just follow through with the action behind the words. And think of me…you’re welcome!

Time to grab your favorite cocktail and raise your glass in a toast: “Here’s to the happy heavenly birthday posts fishing for sympathy in familiar Facebook waters. May your dearly departed raise a heavenly cocktail and toast you from the pearly bar, whispering, “I felt the love, sweetie, even without the comment thread.” And to those thoughts and prayers? Remember, they only count if you actually say one. Amen, and Cheers!”

Life loves a good plot twist. If you’d have told me years ago that I’d marry a man who’s my exact height, wears the same shoe size, has legs smoother than a baby’s behind, and let’s be real – rocks a smaller butt than I do, I would have asked you what you were smoking. And the biggest twist? He’s Asian! So, yeah, new motto: never say never!

Clearly, life doesn’t always go as we’d hoped, as I never thought divorce would be a part of my story either. But here I am. While the cultural differences in my second marriage often shook things up, several I’ve learned to accept, and a few I’ve even grown surprisingly fond of.

Being married to an Asian man has come with its share of culture shocks, quirks, and let’s call them “translation adventures.” A prime example? Texting. Over the years, I’ve learned that often what he reads and interprets is not at all what I intended. He’ll come home from work, holding up his phone as if it’s Exhibit A, asking, “What’s this mean? In my not surprisingly sarcastic way, I reply saying these words ever so slowwwwly… “Y o u   s p e a k   n o   E n g l i s h?” For some reason, he doesn’t see the humor in that. But I always do!

So, I’ve had to learn to craft my messages so they’re clear, direct and complete. Complete means it ends with an emoji. Emojis aren’t just optional – they’re essential. Maybe it’s because he’s a physician and spends his day interpreting pain scales – those silly little cartoon faces telling you how miserable someone feels. If I don’t at least respond with a thumbs-up, a heart, or something that says, “I’m here. I read it,” he doesn’t just think I’m busy, he thinks I’m being dismissive. Like I read his message, shrugged, and walked away. Of course I would never think of doing such a thing.

Being married to an Asian also has included some genuinely funny and heartwarming moments among the cultural confusion. Most of those adventures take place in the shed surrounded by his cronies.

Now, when I say shed, I mean the “man cave,” referring to the majestic retreat tucked inside a big ol’ metal outbuilding, not far from the house. It’s not fancy. It’s got a kitchen, some questionable furniture and absolutely no pressure for me to clean the house when company comes over. Every wife needs a man cave. It’s a survival strategy for marriage. A win/win for both parties.

When his Asian buddies gather there, it’s casual, loud, warm, has the lingering scent of a cigar, and always an abundance of the best food. Holy moly can these guys cook! Every visit is a culinary celebration, and they roll in with enough food and drinks to feed a small village.

Generally, it’s men’s night in the shed, but every now and then I like to make a guest appearance. I’ll wander down to say hi and share a beer with the crew. There’s never a lack of conversation. And by conversation, I mean 5 men all talking to me at the exact same time… about 5 different subjects.

I never know who to give my attention to, so I just smile and let my head bob in agreement – turning from side to side like I’m watching the world’s most confusing tennis match. I try to give one person my attention, but then I hear a “Lisa,” and I whip my head in that direction, only to realize the first guy is still going, completely unfazed. To the guy who now has my attention, he’s so far into his topic, I’m completely clueless. Apparently, in this circle of friends, eye contact is optional.

At some point I’ll catch my husband’s eye from across the table. He’s laughing, fully aware of the chaos unfolding, and thoroughly entertained by my helplessness. He knows I struggle enough just to pay attention to one person talking, let alone 5. Between the talking all at once, I have no clue what anybody’s talking about, but I leave oddly flattered that I was the VIP on everyone’s conversational guest list. Just don’t ask me what we discussed.

Cultural differences sneak in, but once I hear the why behind their reason for doing something a certain way, I generally find it incredibly endearing. Take round tables, for instance. My husband hates long rectangular tables, generally found in American restaurants. Why? Because they’re the enemy of equality. You can only talk to who’s next to you or directly across. But a round table? Now you’re talking equality. Everyone sees everyone. Everyone’s included. At a round table, everyone’s got a voice. And somehow, they all use it at once.

On occasion, when the adult kids and grandkids come home, we go out for Chinese at a favorite restaurant – the one with round tables, naturally. Now that we’re all situated around the table with everyone visible, everyone audible, everyone into 5 different stories, (just kidding), it’s time to order.

The American way? Easy. Pick your entrée, guard it with your fork, maybe offer a bite if someone begs. But in my husband’s world, we share. That means family-style ordering and that is where the Lazy Susan spins into action. The food goes on, we give her a whirl, and you take a small sampling out of each of the many entrees directly in front of you.

The idea of family style ordering is endearing. It’s about sharing and everyone getting to have a little bite of everything. Which is beautiful…unless you were really counting on having ALL that Mongolian beef to yourself. And as for leftovers? They aren’t merely a by-product of this great family-style smorgasbord, they’re intentional. Because what’s more satisfying than walking out with four drippy Styrofoam takeout boxes, and the sweet promise of tomorrow’s lunch, dinner and midnight snack?

Grab your favorite cocktail and raise your glass in a toast: “To the overlapping conversations and head nods, to the smooth-legged man I married, who swears it’s because he’s further evolved from the apes, and to learning that beneath every cultural quirk is a value like sharing or equality that makes the whole beautiful mess make sense. CHEERS!”

Never in my life has a pedicure left me to confront what time and age are quietly doing to my body – until today.

Crystal, my pedicure gal, started out with the usual routine – a clip here, a file there, a good leg and foot scrub. And then, the best part – “The Heeler Peeler Pro”. I have no idea of its official name, but this large, metal flat object looks to me like a lemon rind zester. Except instead of zesting citrus, it shaves off layers from my calloused heels, a reminder why going barefoot may mean freedom, but the heels pay the price.

Even though the whole thing borders on the grotesque, I can’t help but get excited when she pulls it out of her drawer! Crystal works her magic, and after a few decisive strokes of the zester, she taps it on the towel to dispose of the evidence, which, quite frankly, leaves me equal parts horrified and deeply satisfied. Not an attractive sight for a person sitting beside me, so I was relieved that the chair beside me was vacant.

But something happened at today’s visit I wasn’t expecting, nor had I ever had happen before. In the blink of an eye, Crystal seized a shaver and gave my big toe knuckle a casual swipe like it was part of her morning routine. I sat frozen, wondering if now pedicures came with hair removal services below the ankle. Crystal went about her business like this was the most natural thing in the world. Not to me! I wondered if, on previous appointments, she had ignored my toe hair out of mercy or was building suspense for her grand toe-topiary reveal.

While I pondered these important mysteries of life, with my freshly polished toes drying under the UV lamp, something extraordinary happened.

On the salon’s TV, a special live coverage report aired. Pope Leo XIV, the newly elected pope, stepped onto the balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica. Although I haven’t actively practiced Catholicism in nearly 2 decades, I was born and raised in the faith. And yet, watching him stand there, addressing the world, sent chills up and down my body – repeatedly.

I’m sure you’ve heard or read something that touched you to your core, only to feel those chills wash over you. Often, we hear people exclaim, “Oh wow, I just got goosebumps.” Next time you feel those chills, pause for a moment. Take it as a sign that what you witnessed carries more meaning than you may realize. Sometimes, it’s a message, a confirmation, or a quiet whisper from something beyond us, nudging us to pay attention.

By the time I walked out of the salon and got in my car, many thoughts were racing in my mind. There was no outrage over the pope’s election. No rioting. No bitter protests. No social media meltdowns claiming the papal election was stolen. Granted, this just happened. But when in the past was there an uproar over the selection of a new pope? There is only unity, reverence, and celebration.

What if leadership outside of the Vatican worked that way?

Imagine if, instead of divisive campaigns and social media wars, we let the Cardinals select our next president, the same way they pick a pope. At least they care about moral integrity. Instead of choosing candidates based on popularity or political maneuvering, they’d pick someone rooted in humility, service, and moral character – qualities we could use more of in our government.

And here’s another thing – when the pope speaks, the world listens, believing what it hears. Nobody scrambles for a fact-checking website. Nobody rolls their eyes, expecting spin, exaggeration, or flat-out deception. There’s no need to prepare for tomorrow’s correction of today’s awkward half-truths. And, mercifully, nobody is taking Fireball shots every time the words “nobody’s ever seen anything quite like it before,” are uttered while playing a drinking game to make what we hear more tolerable. We just trust what the pope says.

Perhaps it all comes down to faith. The world embraces the election of a pope because, at the end of the day, he’s a man of God. He is chosen through prayer, discernment, and tradition, not by campaigns designed to manipulate public perception. I believe that’s what’s missing in our leadership today – a true moral compass, a foundation in faith, and an unwavering commitment to serve something greater than oneself.

Yet, instead of embracing faith, our society keeps pushing it further away, removing God from classrooms, leadership, and public life as if morality can thrive without Him.

Of course, politics isn’t the papal conclave. We don’t get white smoke, and we certainly don’t get leaders selected based on who best serves the people. Instead, what we are getting feels more like black smoke – cloudy, murky, and suffocating. No clear signal, no unifying moment, just confusion, division, and leadership that leaves us choking instead of inspired.

Grab your favorite cocktail and raise your glass high in a toast: “To the little wins: freshly polished and an embarrassingly shaved toe. To the big wins we’re still waiting on – like leaders that give us goosebumps instead of migraines; leaders we can trust without needing to fact-check and a world where elections inspire cheers instead of social media wars. Congratulations and CHEERS to Pope Leo XIV!”

Finally, a beautiful morning to take my coffee out onto the patio. No humidity, thus dry cushions and a soft breeze. Pure bliss.

I filled the bird feeders, watered my potted flowers, and watched as orioles, finches, cardinals and blue jays feasted, while my resident wren serenaded from atop his house. Life’s simple pleasures for sure. And then, I was discovered! Those pesty little gnats. My serenity was short-lived.

Something so small that you could mistake them for eye floaters, yet more relentless than telemarketers. They swarm your head like paparazzi mistaking you for a celebrity. I had a whole two minutes of peace before the invasion began.

It’s hard to enjoy the outdoors when the weather is practically begging you to come out and play. I want to attend to my flowers, mow the lawn, or simply exist in peace, but suddenly, I’m in the middle of a “gnat ambush”.

Last evening, my husband and I went to play pickleball – our way of getting some exercise, enjoying the outdoors and spending time with friends. It should have been a perfect evening filled with friendly competition and laughter. Instead, it turned into a battle for survival and a competition to find out what spray or home-made concoction defeats them. No winners to date.

Gnats sneak behind your glasses, forcing you to stop mid-swing to fish them out of your eyes. They burrow into your ears. You inhale them, both through your nose and your mouth, adding some unexpected protein to your diet (though not enough to be useful). But worst of all, they invade your scalp, giving you flashbacks to that unfortunate head lice incident you’d rather not relive.

Pickleball was now less of a game and more of an endurance test. Who can last the longest before fleeing indoors in defeat?

When did gnats, or bugs in general, become so aggressive? Back in my childhood, summer was spent outdoors, running wild with friends. Sure, there were bugs, but they didn’t chase you like you owed them money. Has something shifted in our ecosystem? Never did we have to retreat indoors because we couldn’t handle the flying pests. This is what our tax dollars should be spent wisely on, not wasting it on studying the sexual habits of quails on cocaine.

And just when we think we’ve survived the reign of the gnats, another lineup of tiny tormentors will take their place:

MOSQUITOES – the infamous bloodsuckers we’ve come to know, hate and stick around for most of the summer.

NO-SEE-UMS (not sure of their scientific name and don’t care) – the tiny little demons you can hardly see that leave a burning sensation like you were bitten by the granddaddy of all mosquitoes. Fact is, it’s their urine that causes the burning sensation. Sleep tight with that knowledge in your brain. Your life is now complete.

ASIAN BEETLES & BOXELDER BUGS – at least these don’t want to be on our bodies. No, they prefer to wreak havoc by leaving a million, could be a gazillion, little black spots all over our house siding, and they squeeze into any hole they can find and hang out on our ceilings. Then when you go to suck them into your vacuum, you come up with a whole new kind of room deodorizer.

So how do we reclaim our summer from these airborne nuisances?

I present to you my multi-million-dollar invention: A high-tech gnat force-field headgear contraption. Still working on a sophisticated name for it. I’m not talking about the flimsy beekeeper netting we all know doesn’t work. No, this contraption would be supported by a lightweight framework, keeping it away from your face on all sides, enabling you to see a pickleball from all angles. It would only require that the person have shoulders, and I’m pretty confident they all do. They would come complete with a tiny roof-like projection (I’m still working on a retractable type), that would serve as a sun visor, with a solar powered mini fan, to ward off the tiny bastards before they make bodily contact.

I’d love to share more, but I’ve got to leave something for Shark Tank. It’s truly a 50/50 shot whether Mr. Wonderful would fund this on the spot, or take it out back, squash it flat with his designer loafer, and declare it less useful than the gnats it was designed to defeat.  Either way, I’m betting it makes a better crunch.

Would you look ridiculous? Absolutely! But desperate times call for desperate measures.

Unlike mosquitoes, which require blood for their reproductive process (so glad we can assist with that and so glad their assistance is not needed with ours), gnats serve no purpose that I know of. Their sole mission seems to be ensuring we never enjoy a peaceful moment outdoors.

Maybe they’re thrill-seekers, addicted to the adrenaline rush of dodging frantic hand swats. Maybe they just want to inspect every inch of our faces like tiny-winged detectives, or maybe they live by their motto: WE DON’T BITE. WE DON’T STING. WE JUST RUIN YOUR LIFE FOR FUN. Okay, I made that up, but if they did have a motto, that would be it.

So raise your glass, preferably with a lid, because gnats love nothing more than taking a nose dive into your drink, and let’s toast: “ To the hope that one day, gnats – although highly unlikely, will develop a fear of humans, or that my brilliant, state-of-the-art, high-tech gnat force-field headgear will be patented, making me rich enough to retire somewhere where gnats don’t exist. I’m not holding out much hope for either…but I’m confident Mr. Wonderful would be the first to join us in a toast, because if there’s one thing he loves more than a good royalty deal, it’s a bug-free sip of chardonnay.  CHEERS.”

MISOPHONIA: A SYMPHONY OF IRRITATION 

Don’t waste your time looking up the definition of “misophonia,” because I’m about to explain it to you.  In fact, I’m going to devote this entire blog post to it. I’m going to chew that word up and spit it out.  Only, I won’t do it around my younger brother. 

What is Misophonia you ask? Imagine you’re peacefully sitting at the dinner table when the sound of someone chewing makes your brain short-circuit. Your blood pressure rockets, your fight-or-flight response kicks in, and suddenly, your only option is to either scream or exit the room. Telling the person they sound like a cow might feel satisfying for a second or two, but trust me, it’s not worth the awkward fallout. 

Misophonia, for those lucky enough to have no idea what I’m talking about, is an intense emotional reaction to certain everyday sounds. Think of chewing, slurping, licking, or gum popping. While most people would barely notice these noises, those of us with misophonia are sent straight into a spiral of rage and discomfort. Honestly, the word “homicidal” might float across our minds during these moments.  

Before I sat down on my keyboard, I did a little research. I discovered that misophonia typically develops around age 12. Clearly, my brother and I were overachievers. We were early bloomers, blessed or cursed, because we displayed this auditory affliction by the ripe old age of 6-8 years of age. 

Let me set the scene: It’s a school morning and Mom’s made us oatmeal for breakfast, as she often did.  I’m sitting there, minding my own business enjoying my oatmeal, when I look up and see Tom glaring at me with daggers in his eyes. “MOM! TELL LISA TO STOP SLURPING HER OATMEAL!” he’d yell.  Naturally, I stopped immediately. Are you kidding? Of course, I did it on purpose now because when siblings figure out each other’s buttons, it’s their duty to push them.  

Tom, unable to take it anymore, would jump out of his chair and chase me around the table. If we ended up on opposite sides, we’d launch into the classic “which way are you going, huh?  Huh?” standoff. Although I don’t remember Mom ever heeding Tom’s request and asking me to stop, it makes me chuckle to think of her saying, “Now Lisa, stop slurping your oatmeal. It’s annoying your brother”.  

Fast forward to adulthood. Misophonia never packed its bags and left. It’s an uninvited guest at every meal, movie or quiet moment. I have so many stories about needing to leave a room to avoid snapping at someone. 

Case in point: my husband is fully aware of my annoyance at hearing people eat, but since nothing phases him, he forgets. One day we were sitting across from each other at the table. He was enjoying a bowl of soup, and I wasn’t eating. I’d love to say I asked him politely to tone it down, but instead, I blurted out, ‘OH MY GOD, DO YOU HAVE TO MAKE SO MUCH NOISE?” 

That’s when my cultural education began. My husband, who’s from Malaysia, explained that in many Asian cultures, slurping isn’t just acceptable – it’s encouraged. It’s considered a compliment to the cook.  Naturally, I was skeptical, but on a trip to Malaysia, he pointed out the symphony of deliberate slurping at a Pho restaurant. I couldn’t unhear it. 

I don’t know about my brother, but it’s not just food noises that set me off. I have a dog that licks her paws, and the sound has me leaving the room. I also find nose sniffing, gum popping, lip smacking just as annoying. I’ve been at a movie theatre and spent more time fixated on the popcorn-munching around me than on the actual film. 

At the end of the day, misophonia might not be fixable, but it’s far from the end of the world. You learn to cope, or you make a quiet exit. If that’s the worst thing to happen to me, I better not complain. And because laughter is the best coping mechanism, I can’t help but chuckle when I recall my husband’s oh-so charming response to my plea about his noisy eating habits: “Why do you have to bitch so much?” 

So, grab your favorite cocktail and raise your hand high: “To the innocent days before misophonia struck (which were very few). To the sibling battles fought over breakfast, and to the lifelong trauma inflicted by one fateful slurp. May every noisy eater out there enjoy their chomps, every misophonia sufferer know their closest exit, and may my brothers and I carry the scar of the great oatmeal war with pride and a whole lot of sibling love. CHEERS

I had a post ready to go months ago explaining the logo gracing my blog site. The old one, that is. Originally, the logo made sense but then life happened, and well, now it needed a rewrite. When you’ve got the best website creator in your corner, you’re on her timeline, and trust me, she’s well worth the wait.

After several months of building my blogging website, the original logo I had planned to use, got a graceful retirement. Turns out, when life shifts and plans unravel, some ideas get put on the back burner or sent straight to the trash. Regarding that logo, it fell into the latter category.

But I’m still telling the story of how my then-partner, Deidra, and I came up with the original logo, because honestly, I find it funny and I hope you are at least amused. Not to mention, we paid good money for that design, so it’s getting both a grand entrance and a final bow all in one.

Original draft/original logo:

What’s up with the caricature logo, you may ask? Could it be a young diva version of me? While I can clean up nicely when the occasion calls for it, my typical attire consists of an oversized sweatshirt and preferably shorts, weather permitting. Otherwise, it’s leggings and bare feet for this girl. I say comfort over couture any time. Bangs? Haven’t rocked those for years. Diamond earrings? Only if by diamond you mean budget-friendly sparklers. But credit where it’s due: the commissioned artist perfectly captured one of my passions – a good cocktail in my hand with a good reason for a toast.

As for how this whimsical character came into existence, it is quite the story. Many moons ago, my partner in our non-profit organization had the great idea of starting a blog. We were brainstorming a clever name for it. Not long after that, I was reminded of an unforgettable incident that happened to the two of us.

One of our board members at the time was livid because we didn’t just fall head over heels in love with the website his partner was attempting to create for us. When I diplomatically explained it missed the mark and just didn’t capture the essence of who we were, he didn’t take it well. And by “didn’t take it well,” I mean he fired off a scathing email, calling me the C-word (a first for me) and dismissed us as “just two kept women who didn’t know anything.”

After we recovered from the initial shock and picked our jaws up off the floor, we did what any resilient duo would do and laughed hysterically. “That’s it!” I declared. “We’ll call our blog: Two Kept Women, with the tagline: Turning Off AutoCorrect.” And yes, the capital “C” is intentional. It’s both a nod to the infamous C-word incident and because I find it aesthetically satisfying.

Unfortunately, blogging at that time wasn’t in the cards, and a few years later, my partner left to follow her passion to advance her career in the nursing field. Now that I’ve decided to give the blogging circus a go, I searched my computer looking for that original work of art.

Found it! But revisiting that old caricature, it didn’t make sense that both of us were depicted in the drawing. Easy fix. I’ll just crop out my partner. But then things got weird. There was this arm. The arm coming out from nowhere seemingly wanting a front row seat at the show. When I couldn’t figure out how to crop out the arm (several pay grades above mine), I convinced myself it was symbolic, representing my readers joining me, raising their glasses in a grand toast.

But I have to be real here. It was just a rogue limb! A strange floating arm haunting my logo. And while I can appreciate the accidental comedy of it, I decided it was in my best interest to scrap the old design entirely and come up with something that reflects me, because if I’m launching this blog, it needs a logo that doesn’t look like an incomplete anatomy lesson.

And just like doing away with the original logo, I felt the title no longer had its place in my blogging world either. So, in the spirit of fresh starts, and being a person with a soft spot for nostalgia, I promoted the tagline to the title. Because while I may have a habit of clinging to the past, at least it reminds me to keep moving forward.

So, grab your favorite cocktail and raise your glass high, “To old plans that didn’t pan out, but evolved into new ones that actually make sense. And to that rogue arm that refused to let go? I’ll imagine it waving a dramatic farewell to the offended gentleman who decided my dissatisfaction with a website warranted a vocabulary choice so bold, even a drunken sailor would have paused.

I guess some people and some body parts just don’t know when to let go. Cheers!”